Anny says that “there are no more perfect moments”* but on my good days I still refuse to believe her.

There is heavy bliss to this hazy wish
for continuous moment, as we lie
open in a sunlight that slips from halo
to fingertips brushing against
the spider-web delicate surface of your skin.

& there is strange weight that this urge creates;
wanting to steal the scene from time
& climb inside the still-life with you, like
two ancient insects enclosed in amber,
our limbs entangled forever…

…but if this desire for permanence
is just a burning petulance
that stems from the base-thread;
if this tangled nervous-system has found
something greater than itself
only through means of itself,

well, then surely consciousness
is sensuous?

But right now, my love,
I could not give a fuck about such things!

Because right now,
finally!
I feel understood completely, &
right now
awfully
I can feel your pulse race beneath my touch
& I know that one day
it
must

stop.

So, before the world can worm its way
into the space always between us;
before time begins again

I want you to know
that although this moment
was always already gone from us,

this moment,
my love,

this was one of the perfect ones.

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* ‘The Nausea’ – Jean Paul Satre

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